


Tender Pressure

by oo0_oo0



Category: White Collar
Genre: BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Hurt Neal Caffrey, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, POV Peter Burke, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2018-12-22
Packaged: 2019-09-24 14:52:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17102672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oo0_oo0/pseuds/oo0_oo0
Summary: Peter feels insanely protective of Neal after his abduction. Neal is putting up a facade. Peter needs to know what is wrong to help, but digging into Neal's past may bring to light things that Peter is not sure if he can handle.





	Tender Pressure

I climbed the stairs of June’s loft apartment with a pack of beer in hand. What was I doing here? Instead of being home with Elizabeth, curled up on the couch together watching the Mets game? I knocked twice, gently. 

“Come in,” Neal calls out from inside, not bothering to ask who it was. 

I put my hand on the doorknob and it turns open easily. I let out a little growl of frustration despite myself. For the life of me, I couldn’t understand why Caffrey would so flippantly leave the door unlocked, after— I banish the thought from my mind, recalling Hugh’s admonishment this afternoon, you need to stop treating Caffrey like he is easily shattered glass. He passed his psych eval. He’s a grown man. He’ll tell us if he can’t handle something. Hughs had waited till everyone else was out of the office to tell me this. His tone was gentle but firm. 

But he won’t, I thought silently, he could be in over his head with a dozen guns pointed at his head and somehow still not call for my help. Resourceful and foolhardy in equal measure – not bad for being for being a CI, terrible for my mental health. I nodded perfunctorily at Hughes. At that moment, I caught sight of Neal at his desk, poring over case files seated perfectly upright, hard, angular, like he was bracing for something. His usual easy grace vaporized. 

Now Neal was looking out at the Manhattan skyline, standing back facing me, his shirt was slightly wrinkled. His suit jacket and hat cast aside on one of his dining room chairs. Uncharacteristic. He always hung up his suits. 

“Good job on the Mendel case today, Caffrey. Your instincts really helped us nail the case.” I tried for normality. There was only so many times I could ask if he was okay.

“What’s going to happen to Jonathan?” He asked quietly.

“Child protection services will be picking him up tomorrow. Until they locate any relatives, he’ll be placed in temporary foster care.” I kept my tone neutral, but I watched Neal carefully. 

He turned around. There were purple bruises starting to show beneath his eyes, tell tale signs of sleep deprivation. He looked pale and his hair was rumpled, a far cry from his usual styled coiff. Had he been sitting in here holding his head in his hands? Why? 

“You brought beer,” he said gesturing to the six pack in my hands. I was still standing in the doorway at a loss. Unsure if I should stay or leave him to rest. He looked exhausted. Perhaps he would be more at ease without me hovering.

He walked over to the wine shelf and picked out a bottle and a wine glass for himself. I took that as a quiet assent to my presence, my company. I sat down in a chair and cracked open a can. What was it about his case that was different? Did Caffrey feel responsible somehow for Jonathan?

“Peter, you’re worried about me,” he said as though reading my mind. He took a seat in the chair next to me and poured himself a glass of wine. There was a slight tremor in his hands but I did not comment on it.

“Why haven’t you been sleeping? Is it this case?” I asked.

“Nightmares,” he replied dismissively, rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palms. “I don’t like taking the anti-anxiety medication the doctor prescribed. It slows down my thought process.”

He was being honest. His jaunty façade fallen away for once. Seeing him like this made my chest ache. I fought the impulse to reach out and hug him. It’s because you feel responsible, I told myself. He was badly injured while working an FBI case. Being your CI had put him into the crossfire with an old enemy. An old enemy with a grudge.

“Moz is threatening to make me listen to sounds of whales mating if I can’t start sleeping like a normal person soon,” Neal adds. 

“If it were up to me, I’ll keep you at the desk and never let you do field work again,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. Neal looked up at me in surprise. His usually vivid blue eyes seemed somehow paler tonight, lacking in colour. I felt angry suddenly, uncontrollably angry. My breath hitched a little and I tried desperately to calm myself down. I’ve seen how Neal flinches when there is a sudden sound or motion. It’s very slight, and very well disguised, but I notice. The last thing I want is for him to feel threatened.

He places a hand gently on my arm. His expression is unreadable. “Peter, please, I’m fine,” he says. 

“Fine?” I could hear my voice rising in a quaver now. “Fine? Like how you told me everything was fine when in fact Rice was sending you in to meet Wilkes without backup, as bait in an exchange nonetheless? Why would you go when you knew Wilkes had a grudge against you?”

“They had the girl. We could have lost her,” Neal said simply. 

“We could have lost you. He beat you. He cuffed you up and beat you with a pipe. Why did you let him? Why—why didn’t you shed the restraints? Wh— ” My voice was breaking now, I could hear it, but I couldn’t stop. Neal, he could have died. It was easy, one wrong blow to the right place and he wouldn’t be here. 

“Hush, Peter, it’s okay.” He stood up, closed the gap between us, and wrapped his arms around my shoulders. “Peter, breathe.”

Great, now Neal was the one comforting me. “I’m sorry –” I said, trying to keep my voice even, “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”  
He took my hand and placed it gently on his chest and held it there. An incredibly tender gesture. It calmed me. I could feel his heartbeat, regular pulses beneath his shirt. “You don’t have to apologize. You came to get me. I messed up. I underestimated Wilkes.”

My eyes stung. I looked away, broke our line of sight. Neal had a way of holding your gaze when he spoke to you. Charismatic and disarming in equal measure. Even now, exhausted and anxious to reassure me, his eyes still had a magnetism. “You didn’t have all the information,” I said harshly. 

“Rice made that judgement call, not you,” Neal said, still holding my hand against his chest. I fought to focus on the warmth beneath my palm, press down emotions that threatened to overwhelm me. I wanted to protect Neal. Keep him tucked between silky bedsheets and stand guard beside him so that he can get a good night’s sleep, so that no one would ever be able to lay a hand on him again.

I realized I was looking into his eyes again. There was a small crease forming between his brows. His expression was urgent, warm. A few strands of dark hair had fallen over his face where he had not bothered to slick them back. 

“I’m here, and I’m whole.” He seemed to be reassuring me as much as he was reassuring himself. 

“Let me see,” I said. 

“Peter...”

“I need to. When I found you – ” When I found you, you were barely alive, I wanted to say. Wilkes had handcuffed Neal to steel beams in a disused factory, high enough that he had to stand on tiptoes to relieve tension on his wrists. This gave Neal no leverage, no way of defending himself whatsoever. And then Wilkes had beat him, first with his fists, then with a metal pipe. By the time I found him, he was slumped over on the floor, arms resting limply at his sides. His shirt was half-torn off him. He had two broken ribs, lacerations on his wrists and a deep purple bruise spreading from just beneath his ribcage to the rest of his torso. He stated the sequence of events simply for the record. But I knew he suffered. If Neal thought Wilkes still had Audrey, he must have put up no fight whatsoever. 

“You—you are my responsibility.” You’re mine, I wanted to say but did not. He wasn’t mine. He was ward of the state, and he had a job to do at the FBI. But he wasn’t mine, despite what his anklet might suggest.

“It looks worse than it feels,” Neal said.

“I can take it,” I said, realizing it was a lie the moment the words left my mouth. I did not know if I could take it. If I had to see Neal get hurt one more time, I might really cuff him to a table and never let him leave the room. Of course he would pick that cuff off in thirty seconds. “I need to know that putting you back on the field so soon wasn’t a mistake,” I persisted.

“Okay,” Neal said flatly and began unbuttoning his shirt. 

He looked tired and resigned. For a moment, I panicked and wondered if this was another judgement error. He’s done a terrific job of feigning normality since he’s been back to work. I needed to know –

I drew in a sharp breath. 

It looked awful. His entire torso was a patchwork of dark purple and red bruises. There was a particular angry patch in the area just under his ribs and then another dark area concentrated around his navel. I reached out a hand, and as gently as I could manage, touched the bruises lightly with the tips of my finger. Neal trembled slightly at the brush of skin. Something in my chest wrung painfully, but I could not tear my eyes away from the bruises. It had never crossed my mind, but now it was painfully obvious. This wasn’t just a beating done in a fit of rage... it wasn’t any grudge. It was focused, deliberate. Wilkes took pleasure from this. 

“Oh Neal,” I said shakily, “What—”

“Wilkes met me just after I had run away. He had very particular tastes. I knew nothing then. I was foolish and naïve. He taught me, and I let him.” Neal said, anwering the question I was struggling to formulate. He hung his head, and looked away while he was talking for the first time this evening. “I was foolish,” Neal said again.

“You were a child,” I said, failing miserably to disguise the horror in my voice. Pity would not be what he wanted now.

“I was nineteen. I was of the age of consent,” Neal said, shifting his weight to lean against the wall behind him. He looked pale and shaky.

“He... he was the first person you had sex with,” I said, the words sounding foreign in my mouth. I wasn’t sure if I should back off or keep pressing. Neal looked so vulnerable, so breakable. I wanted to put my hands around his shoulders and just hold him. Tease him about hats and fancy wines. But I couldn’t help him if I didn’t know what was wrong. His fortress was usually impregnable. Here he was crumbling, and his walls were coming down with it.

“Yes,” Neal said, his brows furrowing, “he liked to hurt me. Fuck me tied up with my gut pressed into a bedpost.” I could not make out his expression, he was still looking away, but his neck reddened at the admission. He was trembling now, and his breathes were becoming short and shallow. “He taught me to like it too.”

“Neal, let’s sit.”

“No,” Neal said, suddenly grabbing my hand and pushing my palm forcefully to the bruise just under his ribs. “Peter, I need you to press. I need... pressure,” he said urgently between gasping breaths. I stood there at a loss. “Please,” Neal begged. He was still shaky and pale, but his eyes had taken on a feverish quality now. He looked defiant, like he was daring me to hurt him. I didn’t want to hurt him. “You won’t hurt me,” he said forcefully. 

There was heat building at the base of my neck now. Neal looked crazed, his neck flush and arching, eyes glassy. The tremor working its way through his body was turning into painful spasms that made his breath hitch. His skin was soft and warm under the my palm. He looked like he was about to hyperventilate. 

I pushed. 

I pushed the heel of my palm deep into the cavity bellow his ribs. Neal moaned and leaned in towards me. “Ha—arder, please,” he rasped. I gave in. I pressed harder. It was soft and yielding, Neal made no move to flex any muscle or defend himself in any way. I could feel both his pulse and the unpredictable spasms shooting through his abdomen. I kept my hand there, pressed deep into Neal’s stomach. The pain must have been overwhelming, but Neal barely made a sound. The spasms gradually relented, and Neal’s breathing slowly evened out. 

I abruptly jerked my hand away as though burned by Neal’s skin. He sagged towards me and I caught him. “I’m sorry,” he mumbled into my ear, “I’m so sorry Peter.”


End file.
